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Updated: June 28, 2025
I have a great admiration for Farmer Bates and Mrs. Berridge. I regret intensely that they should both have been unhappily married. If they had married each other they would undoubtedly have made a success of life.
She certainly atoned by her own manner for my irreverence; she very obviously tried to impress me. I professed submission, but was not intimidated, rather my curiosity was aroused. Mrs. Berridge was not able to tell me the one thing I most desired to know, whether the lord of Challis Court was in residence; but it was not far to walk, and I set out about two o'clock.
I said to Mrs. Berridge, when the boy was out of sight, "that child is what in America they call 'the limit, Mrs. Berridge." My landlady put her lips together, shook her head, and shivered slightly. "He gives me the shudders," she said. I neither read nor wrote that evening. I forgot to go out for a walk at sunset. I sat and pondered until it was time for bed, and then I pondered myself to sleep.
She got in, and Berridge was the next instant beside her; he could only say: "As you like, Princess where you will; certainly let us prolong it; let us prolong everything; don't let us have it over strange and beautiful as it can only be! a moment sooner than we must."
This state of quick displeasure in Berridge, however, was founded on a deeper question the question of how in the world he was to remain for himself a prepossessing shepherd if he should consent to come back to these base actualities. It was true that even while this wonderment held him, his aggressor's perfect good conscience had placed the matter in a slightly different light.
So if you'd like to glance at it !" And the young Lord, in the pride of his association with the eminent thing, held it out to Berridge as artlessly as if it had been a striking natural specimen of some sort, a rosy round apple grown in his own orchard, or an exceptional precious stone, to be admired for its weight and lustre.
He walked up with me to the farm at ten o'clock and came into my room. "We need not keep you out of bed, Mrs. Berridge," he said to my flustered landlady. "I daresay we shall be up till all hours. We promise to see that the house is locked up." Mr. Berridge stood a figure of subservience in the background. My books were still heaped on the floor.
In 1773 Sir R. Hill gave what he termed his 'Finishing Stroke; Berridge, the eccentric Vicar of Everton, rushed into the fray with his 'Christian World Unmasked; and Toplady, the ablest of all who wrote on the Calvinist side, published a pamphlet under the suggestive title of 'More Work for John Wesley. The next year there was a sort of armistice between the combatants, their attention being diverted from theological to political subjects, owing to the troubles in America.
No, he wasn't jealous, didn't do John Berridge the honour to be, to the extent of the least glimmer of a spark of it, but was so happy to see his immortal mistress do what she liked that he could positively beam at the odd circumstance of her almost lavishing public caresses on a gentleman not, after all, of negligible importance.
Wesley, on his part, thought that such clergy were a mere rope of sand. Berridge predicted that, after the death of the individuals, their congregations would be absorbed in the Dissenting sects.
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